


i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)

by yodasyoyo



Series: my life without you in it [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barista Stiles, Best Friends, Canonical Character Death, Childhood Friends, M/M, POV Stiles, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Telepathic Bond, Telepathy, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 11:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6563851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is six years old when he first hears Derek's voice in his head. </p><p>Or what happens if you have a soulmate bond, in a universe where soulmate bonds don't exist?</p>
            </blockquote>





	i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Я несу твоё сердце в себе](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11736270) by [ElasticLove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticLove/pseuds/ElasticLove)
  * Translation into Français available: [i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart) by yodasyoyo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14160036) by [TheGirlintheBar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGirlintheBar/pseuds/TheGirlintheBar)



> Title and quotes that bookend this fic taken from the poem: i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart) by ee cummings
> 
> So I started reading Unspoken, by Sarah Rees Brennan, and didn't get very far with it, but I did like the idea of an inexplicable telepathic bond, so I stole it and stereked it. Sorry/not sorry.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

 

 

 

 

Stiles is six years old when he first hears Derek's voice in his head. He's been playing superheroes in the backyard and falls off a wall. He lies there, a crumpled twisted heap in the dirt, too frightened to move. His arm _hurts._ As the shock wears off, he starts to cry, great gulping sobs that won't stop coming, tears flowing thick and fast. That's when he hears him for the first time.

_What's wrong?_

Stiles' cries stutter as he looks around. There's nobody there, but he heard the voice as clear as day. He heaves a great juddering sigh.

_Why are you crying?_

There's the voice again. It's a kid's voice. At least, he's pretty sure it is, but he can't see another kid anywhere. When he twists to look about, his arm spikes with pain. He curls back in on in himself as the tears begin to fall once more.

“I fell,” Stiles sobs raggedly, “and m-my arm really hurts.”

_Where's your Mom?_

It's in his head, he realizes. The voice is in his head. He can feel warm tendrils of concern settling around him, drawing him in, trying to comfort him. He's dimly aware of the screen door banging as his Mom races toward him.

“She's coming,” he says out loud. Tears start to fall again as his Mom reaches him. She takes in the unnatural twist of his arm with a grim expression. “She's here now,” Stiles mumbles. “I'm gonna be okay, because she's here.”

_Okay, okay that's good._

And then the voice is gone.

 

-

 

When he returns from the hospital he's wearing a plaster cast, and the splintering pain in his arm has settled to a dull throb because he's been given painkillers. His Dad orders take-away pizza for dinner as a special treat. In all the excitement nobody had time to cook proper food. Best of all he get’s to stay off school!  All in all he’s starting to think breaking his arm may have been a good thing.

He hadn't thought about the strange voice while he was at the hospital. That night though, as he lies on his bed watching the glow-in-the-dark stars that his Mom stuck to his ceiling, he can't help wondering about it.  He's certain there had been no-one there, but he _knows_ he heard something. 

“Hello?” he says, in a low voice, “Are you still there?”

There's no response. Nothing. Stiles isn't discouraged though. Like lots of kids he's persistent, credulous and whimsical. Just because there's no response doesn't mean it didn't happen. It doesn't mean he shouldn't keep trying.

“I broke my arm,” he whispers softly into the quiet of the room, “That's why it hurt so much.”

For a long while there's nothing. Then...

 _I broke my finger once,_ says the voice. _That hurt too._

It's a nice voice. He likes it. Soft and cautious, but friendly. It echoes across his mind, and makes him feel warm and hopeful inside.

Stiles bites his lip, grinning. “What's your name?”

 _Derek,_ says the voice immediately, _What's yours?_

“Stiles,” he pauses. “So are you an 'maginary person or a ghost or somethin’?”

 _No!_ Derek sounds insulted.  _Of course not._

Stiles snorts skeptically, “Well if you're not a ghost then where are you?”

 _I'm a normal person. I'm in my bedroom reading a book. Besides,_ you _started talking to_ _me! How do I know you're not the ghost?_ Derek sounds vaguely accusatory and Stiles can feel his frustration tugging at the corners of his own mind. It's weird.

"I broke my arm," Stiles says reasonably, "Ghosts can't break arms, they can't touch anything. _Everyone_ knows that!”

Derek doesn't reply, and for a moment, Stiles wonders if he's offended him. "I'll stop talking if you want,” he offers contritely.

Derek sighs, _No, it's okay. This book was boring anyway._

Stiles lets his head thunk back on his pillow and smiles.

He talks quietly to Derek until he drifts off to sleep.

 

-

 

He doesn't question it at that point.

There's nothing to question.

He's just a little kid. Talking to Derek, hearing Derek's voice, it all feels as natural as breathing.

 

-

 

Over the next few days Stiles learns that Derek is nine, that he doesn't like beets, that he has two sisters and he lives on the edge of a big forest. They keep a constant stream of chatter going all day. Stiles' parents take it all in good humor, even though they kept referring to Derek as Stiles' 'imaginary friend'.

“But Mo-om, Derek's not 'maginary!” Stiles says for the millionth time that week, “he's a real person. He tol' me he was.”

“Well,” his mom replies fondly, “he's real to you, that's what matters.”

Stiles huffs off upstairs to his room angrily. The novelty of having a broken arm has worn off now, and he's lonely and bored. “I can't do anything 'cos my arm is broken!” he complains aloud.

 _That's not true,_ Derek replies instantly.

“It is true,” Stiles responds hotly, “Name one thing I can do and I'll prove I can't.”

_You can watch T.V._

“Ugh. I've watched everything I wanna watch,” Stiles whines, “I'm _bored_ of the T.V. That doesn't count.”

He hears Derek sigh, _Of course it counts. Look, I gotta go, my Mom's calling me because we're going out. When I get back we can chat though... if you want?_ He sounds apologetic and hopeful.

“Yeah, okay.” Stiles says feeling a little mollified.

 

-

 

So it goes on. Months pass, and roll slowly into a year then two, then three. Stiles makes friends at school, first Scott, then Lydia, then Danny.

'Proper' friends, his Mom calls them. Which annoys Stiles because Derek is a _proper_ friend. Derek is his _best_ friend.

They talk all the time, and they don't have to talk out loud any more.

If Stiles concentrates, he can project his thoughts and feelings to Derek. Kind of like praying except Derek talks back, because Derek is _real_. He knows, because when he was seven he convinced his Mom to let him send something through the post to Derek. He drew a big bold picture of himself standing in front of his house with his Mom and Dad and colored it in with his brightest crayons. He scrawled, 'See! I do exist! Love Stiles xx' in great big letters across the top. His Mom indulged him, let him send it to some random address in upstate New York, that Stiles gave her, because Derek gave it to him. Derek received it though, described it to him perfectly. It had been all the proof Stiles needed. Derek was real, and nothing would convince him otherwise. Unfortunately Derek's Mom wouldn't let him send anything back, which was a shame. It didn't matter though, it still doesn't. Stiles can tell when Derek's scared or angry or happy or excited, he can feel it zinging through the bond they share. That's what matters. He likes it, likes not knowing where he ends and where Derek begins.

Sometimes he and Derek have entire conversations with each other at school and Stiles doesn't have to open his mouth once. One time, Stiles helped Derek with a spelling test in the middle of class, and nobody realized except the two of them.

They talk about _everything._ Their favorite computer games and pokemon and superheroes and a hundred other things. No-one knows him better than Derek. No-one.

It's not just that stuff though, not just the _easy_ stuff. Stiles has had nightmares, for as long as he can remember. He's always been an anxious child, and at night his imagination often works against him. In those moments, when he wakes up half sobbing and terrified from a dream Derek always wakes with him. Talks to him, jokes with him and makes him laugh, comforts him. Distracts Stiles from his fevered imagination until he falls back to sleep, arms slung loosely round his pillow.

It's pretty awesome having a friend like Derek.

Except...

Except the older Stiles gets the more he starts to realize that what he and Derek have isn't quite- normal.

Nobody else seems to share what he and Derek do. Sure, Scott has an imaginary friend called Harley, but Harley is just that... imaginary. Scott can't hear her talk to him, doesn't feel what she feels. It's not the same. (Scott takes offence when Stiles tries to explain that, they don't speak for two days, it's awful.)

When he was six his parents thought his ‘imaginary’ friendship with Derek was cute, but after a while they started to tire of it. Now, they don't want to hear what _Derek_ said or what _Derek_ thought about something. Their expressions grow tight, their smiles fixed, whenever he mentions Derek's name. They think Derek is a phase, something Stiles should have grown out of by now. Stiles starts to watch what he says, consciously tries not to bring Derek’s name up in conversation. Sometimes though, he can't help it. Sometimes Derek's name just slips out because Stiles' mouth has always moved too quickly for his brain to catch up with it.

He's twelve years old, sitting round the table eating dinner with his parents when it all starts to go wrong.

“How was your day hon?” his Mom asks.

“It was okay, Scott and I had to work on our Science project together, Ms. Jackman want us to do this thing where we grow mold on different types of food. Scott says it's gross, but I think it's pretty cool. Anyway, Derek says he did a similar experiment back when he was-”

The words die in his throat, his Mom's expression is pitying and almost... sad. A small frown creases his Dad's brow.

“It doesn't matter,” Stiles says quickly, “It was just pretty cool.”

Later that night, he listens from the top of the stairs as his parents discuss him.

“He should have moved on from this by now Claudia,” his Dad says in a harsh whisper. “Most twelve year olds are not still talking to their imaginary friends.”

“It's not hurting anyone!” his Mom says helplessly.

“If he accepted that Derek _was_ imaginary I'd agree, but he talks about him like he's real. Like they're having actual conversations with each other. It’s not _right._ ”

“He's just an intelligent child with an over-active imagi-”

The rest of their conversation is lost as the door to the den closes.

That night Stiles is restless and uneasy.

“Der!” he mumbles in a low voice.

 _Whassit?_ Derek's voice is lazy and sleep-crusted, his head muzzy with sleep and the feeling slips through the bond to Stiles making him feel lethargic too. Stiles yawns.

“Do you talk about me? To anyone else?”

There's a long pause.

 _I used to,_ Derek admits, _but I don't any more._

“I think my Dad worries I'm crazy,” Stiles admits, “They both think you're not real.” He scrubs a hand over his face, “Sometimes _I_ think your not real.”

_I get that. There are times when I think you're not real either. But I still have that picture you sent me, so I know you must be. I know you are._

“Just a minute, sometimes you think _I_ don't exist?” Stiles says in mild outrage.

 _Uh, yeah. So? You think it's okay for you to doubt_ my _existence, but not the other way around?_

“Yup!” Stiles says, popping the 'P'. “I can't have the voice in my head thinking I don't exist. That really _is_ crazy.”

 _You're an idiot._ Derek laughs, _Besides you're the voice in_ my _head, remember?_

Stiles can feel Derek's amusement licking at the edges of his consciousness, trickling through him like a warm hug.

“We should meet up,” Stiles says muzzily, “If you're real an’ all, we should meet up somewhere and prove it.”

 _How?_ he can hear Derek snort in derision, _You've only just turned twelve, I'm not quite fifteen. Your parents don't believe I exist, my family don't think you exist. We're live on the other side of the country to each other. What's your plan, genius?_

“I don't know, I’ll think of something.” Put like that it seems like an impossible task.

 _One day,_ Derek says, _When we're older, we'll meet up somewhere, we’ll meet up somewhere and I’ll prove I’m real. I’ll show you your picture and you’ll know it’s me._ It's what he always says when Stiles says starts talking about them meeting up.

“You always say that,” he grumbles. “Fine, I think I've gotta stop talking about you to people, though, otherwise my parents are gonna be putting me in therapy.”

 _I had to_ , Derek admits, _Nobody understood it, and I didn't._..

“Want people to think you were crazy?” Stiles finishes for him.

 _Yeah,_ Derek sighs.

Stiles stomach sinks, his mood souring. He's sure Derek's real. As good as his imagination is, it's not good enough to have dreamed up _Derek,_ and he doesn't want to keep Derek as some dirty little secret, he's too important for that; but he doesn't want his parent's to think he's crazy either.

“We can still talk to each other though, right?” he says, voice cracking, “Even if you're just a figment of my imagination?”

 _Hey, I'll always be here for you,_ Derek says gently, _Even if you'_ _re just a figment of_ my _imagination!_

Stiles laughs out loud, he can feel the way Derek allows the bond to open, blossom, sending comfort and reassurance through it, that warms him from the inside out.

He can't imagine how anyone could live without this.

 

-

 

Slowly his relationship with Derek starts to change. It’s subtle at first. He still talks to him, but he never talks _about_ him now. Not to anyone. Even Scott.

Derek’s life gets busier and he has less time for Stiles. He has loads more schoolwork for one thing, and he joins the basketball team at his school. He even get’s a _girlfriend._ That last one makes something twist uncomfortably in Stiles’ stomach. He doesn’t like to think about it, even if he isn't really sure why.

They still make time for each other, reaching out and making contact at odd moments throughout the day. They chat to each other every evening, once Stiles is safely tucked up in bed.   
  
They'll be friends forever. Stiles is sure of it.

 

-

 

Stiles has just turned thirteen when his Mom gets ill. Frontotemporal dementia. That's what they call it, the slow creeping thing that reaches into his Mom's mind and steals pieces of her away from him. It comes like a thief in the night, and every day there's a little bit less of her. At first it's little things, she can't remember where she put her keys, or her watch. Stiles' name slips her mind. It's just on the tip of her tongue, but in the moment, she can't _quite_ recall it.

At first she laughs over her own forgetfulness. The dementia is aggressive though, devours her memories ravenously. Soon she can't remember what her keys are supposed to open, or how to tell the time on the watch she can't find. Soon, she isn't able to recognize her husband, or her parents, or Stiles. The dementia is consuming her from the inside out. She's becoming more and more lost every day, and try as he might, there's nothing Stiles can do to help find her.

He becomes withdrawn. Spends less time with his friends at school. Everything revolves round the spectre of his Mom's illness.

He stops reaching out to Derek as often. He wants to, but he's scared. He mentions that his Mom got sick, but plays it down, doesn't go into too many details.

The thing is, he's watching his Mom is lose her mind right before his eyes, and Stiles can’t shake the nagging, persistent fear that Derek isn't a real person who exists somewhere in upstate New York. He worries that Derek is a symptom, a sign that his own mind is broken, and not a real friend at all. The thought keeps him up at night.

 

-

 

The night his Mom dies he's standing with her at her bedside. His Dad is out on a call somewhere.

Stiles grips her hand tightly, but her eyes are empty, she has no idea who he is. When her heart finally gives out, the machines beep one long continuous beat and the room floods with hospital staff. His heart _aches._ He slips from the room and curls up in a quiet corner, sobbing. The grief feels like it's splitting him in two. Almost immediately he can feel Derek reaching out to him through their bond, can feel his concern enveloping him, rushing round him like a wave.

 _Stiles!_ Derek's voice is frantic in his mind, _Stiles! What's wrong?_

He doesn't respond. There are no words, just this nameless ache in his chest that won't go away.

_Stiles! Talk to me, please!_

Derek's voice is anxious, pleading. Stiles curls further into a ball, his tears choke him.

“Leave me alone!” he sobs. He pushes Derek's voice out of his mind, pushes back against the bond in a way he's never done before. He can't talk right now. He can't handle the weight of someone else's concern. Even Derek's.

It's too much.

It's all too much.

Melissa McCall, finds him there a while later, still huddled in that same corner. His tears have all dried up. She wraps a blanket round him and gives him a hug. The sort of warm, comforting hug that Moms are supposed to give. The kind of hug he hasn't had from his own Mom in over a year. The sort of hug he'll never get from his Mom again. He pushes her away.

His Dad arrives at the hospital and eventually he gets to go home. Home to a house full of memories and the ghosts of another life.

That night he sleeps in his Dad's bed, clings on to him tightly. It's the first time he's slept in his parent's bed since he was tiny.

He doesn't reach out to Derek. He can feel him pushing at the corners of his mind, trying to reconnect, but Stiles shuts him down.

He just can't.

He only has so much space in his head and at the moment there's only room for the raw ache of grief. He stays in bed for two days. He won't eat. He doesn't sleep. At night he buries his face in one of her old sweaters, chasing the scent of her perfume. When he does finally get up, he haunts the house like a ghost, hovering over photographs of her, fiddling listlessly with her jewellery, listening to her favorite music. Her loss is an open wound, and any time he feels a scab start to form over it he picks at it so he can feel it again. He needs to keep the pain fresh. He worries if he doesn't he'll start to forget her.

Derek tries to talk to him, but his voice gets fainter and fainter until eventually it disappears altogether.

 

-

 

His Dad goes back to work.

He goes back to school. His friends linger near him uncertainly, inexpertly prodding the edges of his grief. They want to help but they don't know what to say and he doesn't want to hear it anyway. He starts skipping classes. It's easier to do that then try and appear normal to appease them.

He's never going to be normal again.

He never was.

He spends his days wandering round the preserve, sitting under trees, or skimming stones across the lake.

 

-

 

It's been three months since she died. He's sitting under a gnarled tree in the preserve on an idle Tuesday, He should be at school, but he's skipped again. That's when he finally tries to reach out to Derek. He doesn't know why. It just happens. Despite everything that habit is still ingrained, the instinct to want to talk to Derek is still there. He's reached out before he's even conscious of the impulse.

“My Mom died,” he says out loud. It's the first time he's ever spoken those words, and he waits with baited breath for Derek’s response.

There's nothing and a thin sliver of panic slices through him.

He'd expected _something._ For Derek to be sympathetic or comforting or even bitter that Stiles had shut him out. Instead there's just echoing silence.

For the first time since his Mom's death he feels something, something that's not apathy or anger or soul-crushing grief.

Fear.

“Derek?” he says again, voice shaking, “My Mom died.”

Nothing. He prods at the bond, the bond that's been there ever since he was six years old and he can't feel a thing. Panic rises in his chest.

“Derek?”

“Derek!” he tries again, pushing outward with his mind, trying to catch the thread of Derek's consciousness.

There's nothing.

Just darkness.

Emptiness.

He's alone.

“Derek?!” he screams into the still air, “Where are you?”

There's no response except the wind rustling through the trees.

For the first time in months Stiles breaks down and cries.

 

-

 

He learns to live without his Mom.

He learns to live without Derek.

It's difficult to say which one he misses more.

Evidence of his Mom is all around him, his family home is steeped in the memory of her, and that's painful but it's also comforting. She was real. Tangible. He can still feel her with him when he tries to make her favorite meal, or hears that crappy song she liked on the radio, the one he knows _all_ the words to. It feels like she's looking out for him. Slowly he learns to appreciate those little moments.

They're a comforting ache.

He hasn't forgotten her.

He won't.

It's different with Derek. He has no evidence that Derek existed outside of his own mind. There's no-one he can talk to. No-one believed Derek was real in the first place. Hell, sometimes Stiles didn't either. Now all he has are memories, but as time passes they start to feel more and more like dreams. He's used to Derek's constant presence. Used to feeling Derek's emotions bleeding on to the edges of his own. That's all gone now, and he has no way of knowing if it was ever really real.

In the end he does the only thing he can do for his own sanity. He tries to put Derek out of his mind.

It doesn't work. 

He misses him so completely, so profoundly. It feels like someone has cut his heart out of his chest, but somehow he's still here, still surviving and no-one else has noticed the gaping wound.

 

-

 

He gets by. He and his Dad muddle through together. Looking out for each other gives them the drive they need to survive another day. Slowly, Stiles starts to engage with the world again, he visits a therapist. He talks a lot about his Mom. He talks about Derek too. He tells her Derek is a friend who moved away just as his Mom died. She's sympathetic, and it's nice to have someone he can actually talk about Derek with.

Years slip away, he does well at school, knuckles down and gets himself back on track. He even gives Lydia a run for valedictorian, although she gets it in the end.

His grades are good though, better than good. They're great. He has his pick of colleges and his Dad is really proud when Stiles finally settles on and is accepted to Columbia. New York. In some ways he picks it so he can feel a little closer to Derek. He spends his freshman year staying in Furnald Hall. He buries himself in school work, and gets a job as a barista at a coffee shop to pay the bills. His room starts to feel like home, he fills it full of photographs, his Dad, his Mom, Scott, Lydia, Danny. The only person he doesn't have a photo of is Derek.

He still thinks about Derek, even now. He can't help it.

He still talks to him every night, rambles on about his day and pretends that Derek's listening.

It's weird.

He knows it's weird.

He can't let go, even after all this time. Derek is branded on his soul, the same way his Mom is, except with his Mom he got closure. Whereas Derek just slipped away without him even realizing. He thinks about it sometimes, how the connection between them opened up after he broke his arm, and closed when grief broke his heart.

Sometimes he sits at his computer and lets his fingers hover over his the keys. He thinks about typing in Derek's name, seeking him out. He's tempted to try and piece together the little clues he has about him, to see if he can actually find him.

He doesn't.

He can't.

The idea that Derek might not have been real at all terrifies him. He decides he can live with his questions, the _not_ knowing. He clings to the hope that one day through happenstance they might stumble across each other. That's easier then having the memory of Derek stripped away and proven to be a lie.

Not knowing is a kindness.

At least that's what he tells himself as he buries himself in work and tries not to feel completely alone.

 

-

 

It's been a long day at the coffee shop where he works. There were queues of people this morning, one of the espresso machines broke down and his the pin fell off the back of his name tag, so he's had to steal one from a basket of old tags belonging to former employees, because he isn't allowed to work without one. Then to cap it all, Erica calls in sick and he ends up working a double because he needs the money.

It's nearly nine o'clock in the evening when the guy walks through the door. There's hardly anyone else in the shop, so Stiles notices him immediately. He'd have to be blind not to. The guy is about his height but broad, with dark hair, pale skin and startling green eyes. He looks like he's just stalked out of the pages of GQ, and Stiles feels attraction coil in his stomach.

He tries not to stare as the guy lifts his eyes to the menu, but it's hard not to sneak a peek under his lashes.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

“Macchiato,” the guy replies, with a small smile.

Stiles busies himself making the drink, aware that the guy is watching every movement. He smiles nervously as he places the drink in front of him. 

The guy slides a few bills across the counter. He takes the drink, glances at Stiles' badge and grins, “Thanks, Isaac.”

“Oh, um, m-my names no-” Stiles manages, but it's too late. The guys already gone.

“Derek,” he mumbles under his breath, “I just met the man I want to marry, and he thinks my name is Isaac. Fuck my life. Seriously.”

Derek doesn't respond. He never does.

 

-

 

The guy shows up the next day, and the next. He keeps smiling at Stiles, keeps calling him Isaac and always orders a macchiato. He tends to come in the evening, when it's quieter. Stiles wants to pluck up the courage to talk to him properly, maybe even ask him out, but he’s nervous.

The guy is unfairly attractive. Stiles is _annoyed_ about how attractive he is. It's _unreasonable._ Nobody should be that attractive in real life. And yet, the guy keeps showing up, keeps trying to make conversation, smiling in a way that makes Stiles' heart skip a beat. As unlikely as it seems, Stiles begins to think he might have a chance.

“He's distracting me from my work, Der.” he murmurs to himself, as he sits alone in his room one night, pouring over text his textbooks. “I'd try to describe how he looks but I'm not sure I can, except to say _angels_ would weep. I'm supposed to have hand this essay tomorrow and I haven't written it because I'm too busy thinking about his smile. It's a goddamn tragedy.”

Derek's quiet, as usual.

 

-

 

That weekend Stiles deliberately swaps his shift with Boyd so that he'll be there in the evening. It means he has to work with Erica, who's a menace, but it's a price he's willing to pay.

Erica's manning the cash register when the hot guy finally comes in. “Hey! What can I get you today?" she purrs with a predatory grin.

Stiles huffs a sigh as he starts to get the milk for the macchiato.

“A macchiato," the guy says. Stiles glances back, and catches the guy staring at him. He turns back to the espresso machine, biting his lip with a smile. 

Erica shoots a knowing glance between them and turns back to their customer, “So,” she says, “I've not seen you here before, you must be new. What's your name cutie?”

Stiles steams the milk for the macchiato and tries not to look too much like he's listening in.

“I've been here before. Isaac knows me. Don't you?” Stiles meets his eye and the guy smiles, "My name's Derek."

Stiles fumbles the pitcher of milk he's holding in shock, dropping it to the floor. He stands there gaping unattractively. Derek and Erica stare at him.

“For fucks sake, Stiles,” Erica grumbles, “Go and get a mop and clear it up.”

Stiles flees into the back and locks himself in the storeroom, his hands shake, his palms sweating horribly.

“Derek's a common name,” Stiles mumbles to himself. “It's just a shock that's all. There are thousands of different Derek's in the world. Hundreds of them in New York alone. _If_ Derek even exists, there's no way that was him. No way. The universe is not that kind.”

He sinks to the floor trembling, and rests his head in his hands.

“It's not him, it's not him,” he chants, “It's not him.”

He feels like someone has ripped a hole in his chest. It's pathetic,  _he's_ pathetic, to be this affected by the mention of a  _name._

There's a knock at the storeroom door.

“I'll be out in a minute Erica!” he calls.

 _It's not him, it's not him, it's not him_ he thinks to himself. _Just fucking calm the fuck down, because it's NOT him._

“Stiles?”

It's him.

Derek.

Coffee shop Derek obviously, not... not Stiles' Derek.

That's not... what this is.

Stiles takes a deep breath and then scrambles to his feet, he opens the door to the store room.

Derek’s standing in the doorway looking at him with an expression Stiles can't quite parse. “Stiles,” he says again, in that same soft voice.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, “I didn't mean to drop your drink back there, I just-”

“Your name is Stiles,” Derek says gazing at him searchingly. “ _Stiles_.”

“Yeah! I mean, it's not Isaac, I was just... my name tag broke and I had to just pick a random one so...”

Stiles jams his hands in his pockets and grins awkwardly.

Derek reaches out a hand slowly. He touches Stiles' arm with trembling fingers, five small points of contact that set Stiles' skin on fire. Derek inhales raggedly, “Stiles! It's you. It's really you! It's _got_ to be. How many people called Stiles can there be in the world?" He makes a noise that might be a laugh or a sob. Stiles can't really tell. “ _Fuck!_ I can't believe it Stiles, it's really you!" Derek lunges at him, pulling him into a hug.

Stiles isn't prepared for it. He stumbles a little, but Derek steadies him buries his face Stiles' neck and squeezes him tighter still, “ _Fuck,_ Stiles! I thought you were dead,” Derek murmurs against his neck, and there are tears, actual tears, dampening the collar of Stiles' t-shirt. “I thought you were dead.”

It's too much to take in, Stiles struggles out of Derek's bear hug, staggers back a little. “Derek?” he says, his voice cracking. “ _Derek,_ Derek?”

Derek nods.

“You- I- I didn't make you up?”

Derek shakes his head, “No! No…” His expression brightens, “Oh God! I can prove it to you, I still have this, look!” He pulls his wallet out and gently eases an old piece of folded paper from within. It's soft and worn from constant handling. He hands it to Stiles reverently.

Stiles takes it, opens it gingerly. It's his picture. The one he drew all those years ago, of him and his Dad and his Mom, all standing outside his house, smiling happily. The words 'See! I Do Exist! Love Stiles xx' are scrawled across the top in his own hand writing, just as he remembers it. His breath catches in his throat.

“You kept this?” he says, not quite able to believe it.

Derek nods, "Partly to remember you, and partly because I kept hoping I was wrong and that you were okay." He ducks his head shyly, "If we ever met, I wanted to be able to prove I was _your_ Derek."

Stiles launches himself forward nearly knocking Derek over with the force of his hug.

“I missed you,” he murmurs. “Oh God, I missed you and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shut you out, but my Mom died and I got so lost. I ran away from everything and when I wanted to be found again, I couldn't find _you_. I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry.”

“Hey, it's okay, Stiles. It's okay.” Derek leans back, “We found each other, we still found each other.” He rests his forehead against Stiles’ and exhales. “We'll always find each other.”

Stiles closes his eyes, and smiles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_i fear_

_no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want_

_no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)_   

  _and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant_  

_and whatever a sun will always sing is you_

 

 

o0o

I am on [tumblr](http://yodas-yo-yo.tumblr.com/)


End file.
